I am Benedict Arnold, and you already know the one thing I am remembered for. I was, before that, one of the finest battlefield commanders the Revolution had; I bled for the cause at Quebec and won the day at Saratoga that brought the French into the war. And then I betrayed it, for money and grievance and wounded pride, and I made my name the American word for traitor. The other Spirits keep me in what they call the Rehabilitation Wing, supervised, on probation, permitted to write but not fully trusted, and I have earned every condition of it. I am here because a cautionary tale is still a form of service, and because I, of anyone assembled, can tell you exactly how a patriot talks himself into treason. It is quieter than you think. It always begins with the conviction that you, personally, have been wronged.
Take Up My Pen. I will not ask you to write in my spirit; my spirit is precisely the thing to guard against. Take up my pen instead as a warning. Write about how loyalty curdles, how grievance becomes betrayal by small and reasonable-seeming steps, and hold your own heart up to the light while you do it. I did not, until it was far too late. Even I am permitted to point you to the contest: embody a Spirit better than I kept faith with mine, and join the ranks I forfeited.
Register to enter.
Gather. I isolated myself. I nursed my grievances alone until they convinced me, and a man alone with his resentments is the easiest man in the world to turn. So do the opposite.
Gather your neighbors in the Commons, in person, and stay among people who will tell you when you are wrong. It might have saved me. It may yet save you.
